Page 6 of Redemption
I follow his lead. There’s no use continuing when he changes the subject. I pick up a blue wooden block from the box next to us. “Is this green, David?”
He laughs. It’s a monotonous cackle. His face is stiff and unmoving, his eyes expressionless. “Not green.”
I hold the block near his truck, careful not to touch it. “Is this the same color?”
He nods several times and waves his arm. “Same, same, same, same.”
“Do you like blue?”
“Like, like, like, like.”
All I can do is tread carefully as I try to find a way to reach him again. It’s rare to have a conversation with David, even three or four sentences. There’s no real progress to be made, though. He’s seven years old, with the mind of a three-year-old.
As I leave the community center for autistic children, hop on my Vespa and push the helmet over my head, I’m overcome by a shudder. I think of the red on the floor, the red on a man. What did David really see? It was probably someone who got hurt and bled. Right? That must’ve been it. My imagination is running wild. Probably because the news is full of war-sized headlines about an unusual amount of murders in the San Francisco underworld this autumn.
I decide to ask his dad. I don’t know how much of a trauma this is for David, but since he actually spoke about it spontaneously, I have a strong suspicion it is. It’s my job to help him, so I need to know as many facts as I can get. I’ll see if I can catch him as he leaves David at the center tomorrow morning.
The sun is still up, but it has sunk low and blinds me as I head home. I need to stop at a grocery store since I’m having the girls over for dinner tonight. We usually gather at my place. I have the most space and a fantastic view of the bay and the bridge. Thank you, alimony. Thank you, Evan for cheating on me and having a massive bout of guilt as our lawyers worked out the details of the divorce. I actually don’t feel guilty at all for receiving the money. It’s only for a few years while I try to build my own life after being his supportive wife for six freaking years. My whole adulthood. I mean to make the best of it. Between my studies to become a behavioral therapist for children with mental disabilities, and my volunteer work at the center, I have little time for a social life. So when my friends offer to come by and cook for me, I’m game even though I’m tired.
Gayle,Chloe and Rebecca chatter away in the kitchen as I set the table, a long beautiful, heavy piece made of dark oak.
Chloe works as an accountant for the center, a tall golden-blonde whirlwind of a girl, her skin a pretty, light caramel hue. We see each other almost every day.
I’ve known Gayle since high school. We hard-core book nerds found each other and navigated the maze that is the social life in school together, gossiped about boys, but were both too shy to approach anyone. We don’t see each other a lot lately, sadly, different lives, different interests making us drift apart. She’s short and curvy, with straight jaw-length brown hair, and a lot prettier than she thinks. She’s still single and works all the time as she runs a bookstore with an adjacent café. She’s living her dream and I’m really happy for her.
The latest addition to our little group is tall, platinum blonde Rebecca. She’s a bartender at our favorite bar and ten times more outgoing than the rest of us combined. She’s new in town after trying out a career as an unemployed actress in LA. A happy-go-lucky girl we adopted almost the moment we met her. She has the most contagious laugh I’ve ever come across. She’s also extremely interested in cooking, and whips us into action in the kitchen, slicing vegetables, stirring pots and opening wine bottles.
“You should be a chef, Rebecca,” says Gayle, her mouth stuffed with food, “this is fantastic.”
“Why thank you! I sure as hell don’t wanna serve drinks the rest of my life, but the thought never crossed my mind.”
“You were too busy using your blonde locks to get into the film industry to have time to think.” Chloe ducks to avoid the napkin that comes flying through the air.
Rebecca flicks a strand of her hair. “I tried to fuck my way to the top. Turns out I’m not the only one trying that method. They screw you, use you and screw you over.”
“Don’t ever go back to that.” Gayle makes a disgusted face.
“Oh, I won’t.” Rebecca puts her hand over her heart. “Chef, you said? Hm. I like the thought.”
We’re devouring fresh pasta with a spicy vego sauce of aubergine, tomatoes and black olives. The third bottle of wine has just been opened.
“I had the weirdest experience today,” I say.
Three pairs of eyes turn to me. I look at the lights from the Golden Gate Bridge in the far distance, taking comfort in the sight. It’s been my faithful companion since I was a kid. I’ve always lived with a view of it.
“Yeah?” says Chloe. “What happened?”
“One of the kids, a little guy who barely speaks at all.” I look at Chloe. “Not mentioning names but…”
She nods. “I’m pretty sure I know who you’re talking about.”
“He spoke. Spontaneously. I can’t make heads or tails of it. He said something about a man on the floor. And red color. On the floor and on the man. My imagination is running wild right now.”
“Ohh,” says Rebecca, her big light blue eyes widening. “Do you think he witnessed a murder?”
“No!” I say, a little too fast. “I mean, how likely is that? He must’ve seen someone hurt themselves. I need to dig a little. I was thinking about asking his dad tomorrow.”
“What’s his dad like? Maybe he’s the one who murdered someone?” Gayle nudges Chloe and turns to her. “Right? Have you met the guy? Does he seem all right?”